The Life and Times of a Living Vampire
by fob3307
Summary: A vampire, bored with the longevity of his life, attempts to be human  although he despises them  and fails.


_Tonight's the night,_ I thought cheerfully, smiling at the appealing thought. My partner, Cassandra, was staring at me like I'd skinned her cat, right in front of her. She didn't like me for some odd reason, but it was justified. I actually _had_ skinned and killed her cat- just not the way she would think- but she couldn't know that already. It was just last night, when it had started warbling right around bedtime. The fact that I don't sleep didn't matter at all- I liked to relax and write poetry around that time, and her stupid cat had disturbed me. She'd find that surprise in her room tonight. Nevertheless, at least one problem was solved and all I could do at the moment, especially with so many people around, was grin at her. I shoved today's pile of paperwork into my shoulder bag, hefted the bag (like it was "heavy," _pshh_, yeah, right.), and walked toward the stairs of the police office. Unfortunately, Jimmy Thompson caught up with me.

"Heyyy, Dave! What's up my man? Tonight's the night for partyin'! I got a couple of surprises that are gonna be there and they'll make a lot of people real happy." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Are you in?" The idiot.

"I'm sorry _man_; I've got too much work to do tonight." Of course, it would be done in about three minutes, but I had other things to do tonight as well. "I'll try to come next time." If I cared enough, which I sincerely doubt I will, but hey- benefit of the doubt, right?

"Don't do this man; you said that last time, and I'm startin' to get the feelin' that you don't like me."

The _feeling_? "Oh, no, of _course_ I like you, it's just my work... and I don't want to have to explain it to the boss... I just started y'know, and it wouldn't help if I already began to slack..."

"Oh, okay, then. Next time, I guess."

He walked away so dejected, I almost felt sorry for him. Then I remembered my planned activities and perked up immediately. I reached my car unscathed and groaned. I'd have to keep up this human charade at least until I got home. Sadly, I'd have to drive this metal death trap that moved about as fast as a dead gorilla all the way there.

Twelve painstaking minutes later, I pulled into my driveway, and got out of the car more excited to be home than my later objective. Walking like a normal little human, I got to the front door in twenty seconds (ugh) and unlocked and opened the door in another two.

Finally inside the house, I sat at my desk and filled out the papers for eight homicides, two rapes, and a "cliff diver" in about two minutes. What can I say? I write unusually fast. Finished with my work, I got dressed for later in black jeans, a black hoodie, and black tennis shoes. I didn't need anyone to see me, although if they did they wouldn't stay alive long enough to tell the tale. The horrible, gruesome, _delicious_ tale. A tale I would enjoy as soon as the sun set.

Twenty-four minutes of planning and anticipation led to the final setting of the sun, and I grinned happily.

_Tonight_, I reminded myself,_ is the night!_

Half a second later, I was walking around downtown (See? With a car, it would've taken at least ten minutes) with an easy confidence that I recognized. The night was _my_ territory, and I felt powerful here. I was thirsty, and every pitiful human walking past was tantalizing, but I had to choose someone who wouldn't be noticed if they went missing, especially since I had such an exciting career in law enforcement. This usually led to dead beggars and occasionally drug dealers or runaways, but hey- I'm not picky.

This night, I found a runaway, hiding in a box with a small backpack on his back. He was desperate for food and a place to sleep, so I gave it to him. Of course, he didn't know he'd never wake up again, but I don't think people like to dwell on tedious matters such as those. I watched him scarf down his square burger and fries from the nearest fast food restaurant we encountered. His heart was beating extremely fast, thudding quite loudly (to my ears, anyway). He was clearly afraid, though his shallow human mind couldn't figure out why; his animal instinct had found me dangerous, but the human in him had long ago suppressed it. Ah, well. Too bad- for _him_ anyway.

He finished eating, and I checked him in to a nearby motel under a false name- using cash, of course. We walked to the room, and, seemingly without reason, the boy's heartbeat increased twofold. I unlocked the room door and led him inside, and, after locking the door, I turned to him and said, "How's this?"

He replied in a muted voice, "It's good. Why'd you lock the door?"

"It's illegal to harbor runaways. I wasn't planning on getting in any trouble trying to help you."

I headed toward the restroom.

"I need to use the restroom, but after that, I'll leave, all right?"

He nodded, already beginning to get comfortable. I went into the bathroom and waited a few minutes. I heard the television turn on, and the bed creak as the boy sat on it. Now was the time. I opened the door and appeared suddenly next to him.

"What the..." he began, staring at me with wide eyes. My upper and lower canines lengthened and sharpened noticeably, and I chose that moment to grin. Before he could blink, I had bitten the right side of his neck out, and blood, delicious, warm, _fresh_ blood spurted out into my mouth.

Finished and "full," I left the remains of the body lying on the bed, in a never-ending sleep, and walked out, locking the door behind me. I caught the scent of a middle-aged woman and cleaning materials that paused here and went on. Housekeeping had been by not too long ago.

_When she comes back, she'll certainly have plenty to clean_, I thought, thinking of the gory mess I'd left. Oh well. I wasn't much for cleaning up after myself. Moments later, I was back at my rather comfortable house lying on my rather comfortable bed writing poetry. I _never _watched TV. Television these days were rather boring, because, unlike the sixties and seventies, it was mostly based on everything the entertainment business had found out (such as CGI, the people's general interest in Italian-Americans yelling at each other, and, God forbid, _3D)_. Most shows had no plot. Either way, I'd have to wait until morning to go to work, and I'm extremely impatient.

Some would comment that my poetry is rather morbid, but I believe I just have a better sense of the dead than any of these _humans_. I enjoy writing about death, because, by _human_ standards, I am. My heart doesn't beat; I don't breathe, or perform some sort of perspiration. By the rules of nature, I am dead. However, my human colleagues don't know this, and I prefer to keep it that way. (It wouldn't harm _me_, just make death more complicated, and then everyone who knows will have to die, and I'm not one for wasting blood.)

Morning came with new problems, and these were serious.

"Come down to the station," said my boss, Sarah Juarez, as soon as I answered the phone. "There's been a murder, and we've got a witness."

Whole _minutes_ later, I arrived at the police station looking like I'd just woken up and hurried here (_that_ takes a lot of practice). Immediately, Sarah began to fill me in. They'd found a young male body lying on a bed in a motel room with his throat ripped out. Of course _I_ knew already, but what had startled me the most was she said they'd found a witness.

I lowered my mental block and listened to her mind. She hadn't seen the body yet, but she'd heard it was terrible. She also hadn't spoken to the witness yet, but was planning to after she'd told me what had happened and "ordered" me to "investigate" the crime scene. Reforming, my mental block, (all the chatter got to be too much) I asked her, "Have you spoken to the witness?"

"Not yet, but I have an idea what she's going to say."

"What?"

"Some crap in Spanish, and then she might pass out again."

"Ah." This woman's ignorance is _amazing_, might I add.

"Have you tried speaking _politely_ to the witness?"

"As politely as I know how," she replied, glaring at me.

We walked into the interrogation room. The woman was sitting at the table, faced away from me. Her translator, the infamous Jimmy Thompson, was sitting across from her.

"Ms. Hernandez?"

The woman turned, saw Sarah, and I, standing next to her. She let out a bloodcurdling (lovely word choice- am I right, or am I right?) scream.

"Ese es hombre! Es hombre demonio! El mató al niño!"

"What did she say?" yelled Sarah. Jimmy looked worried.

"She said that _he's_ the one who killed the boy. She says he's a demon."


End file.
